Bastion of Darkness

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Where is you?” a talon barked from just inside the door. “Fogump!”

  The talon stepped outside, and then it was dead, in the single swipe of Bryan’s sword. The half-elf headed into the room immediately, where two other talons busied themselves cleaning great buckets of slop. He fell over the first before they ever knew he was there and caught the second just before it reached the small chamber’s inner door, stabbing it hard in the kidney. He stuck it again and again, rushing up so that he could bring his hand over its mouth to stifle its dying screams.

  Even as that one slumped dead to the floor, Bryan rushed back across the room and outside, to drag the dead talon back in.

  Footsteps in the hall beyond the inner door alerted him that yet another was approaching. He took up a pot in one hand, his sword in the other, and moved beside the door.

  The creature came right in, then stopped, stunned.

  Bryan smacked it over the head with the pot, shoulder-blocked it out of the way—closing the door as he moved past it—and pinned the beast up against the wall, his sword tip coming right in under its chin, his other hand, free of the dropped pot, slapping across the talon’s mouth.

  “If you cry out, I will drive my sword into your puny brain,” Bryan promised, and from the look on the brute’s face, he knew that it understood.

  “The woman?” Bryan asked. “The wraith of Mitchell brought a woman here? Do you know this?”

  The talon nodded. Bryan felt its hand move a bit along its belt, and he understood its plan.

  “Where is she?” He took his hand from the beast’s mouth, but stayed right up against it.

  “Down,” the talon said, its answer cut short as Bryan slapped his hand back over its mouth.

  Again the half-elf felt the movement along the waist, felt the talon grabbing hold of something.

  Bryan’s sword drove up under the creature’s chin, through the roof of its mouth and into its brain. The talon twitched and shuddered and fell limp, upright only because Bryan still had it pinned against the wall. He eased the talon to the floor, taking note of the dagger in its belt.

  Then the half-elf set about making the room look as if the talons had engaged in a fight among themselves. He left one dead at the door, but jumbled the other three together, planting the knife of his last kill into one of the wounds of another, then taking the sharp scraper one had been using to clean hardened food from the plates and sliding it into the last talon’s garish wound. With one talon missing, it was likely that any guards uncovering this scene would begin a search for the murderous Fogump. That search should keep them from the dungeons, Bryan reasoned, for what fugitive would deliver himself to Thalasi’s prison?

  “Down,” the half-elf muttered. He eased the door open and peeked into the corridor. Torches lined the walls, but they were far-spaced, creating many shadows. Bryan glanced left, then right, looking for some clues.

  Nothing.

  He went left, moving swiftly and silently, crossing the corridor as he approached every bend to get the best vantage point around it. He took too many turns to keep track, even went through several empty rooms, then slipped into a dark alcove that ended at a door.

  He heard the slapping feet of talons beyond and judged from the sound that they were below him, coming up some stairs. Bryan considered the door, then moved to the side of the alcove into which it would open.

  He held his breath as the talons—three of them, heavily armed—came through, swinging wide the door then continuing on, the last of the line giving a yank to close the door.

  Bryan sucked in his breath even more, for the three stood barely five feet away!

  They didn’t notice him, though, and just went on their way.

  Through the door went the half-elf, and down the stairs. He passed several landings with doors similar to the one he had come through, but he ignored them, thinking it best to start at the bottom.

  Finally, the stair ended in a tunnel of natural stone, hardly worked, and with a dirt floor, the only light coming from a partially opened door far down the corridor.

  Bryan crept along. He could hear the roar of the fire; it was no mere torch. He also heard a talon chuckle, an evil-sounding laugh, and a low moan, but he was relieved to recognize that the moan was not one of a woman, but of another talon. At the door, he peeked in enough to see a brutish talon wearing heavy leather gloves, studded bracers on its wrists, a leather collar about its thick neck, and a thick black hood rolling a poker about on top of the stone rim of a blazing fire pit. The end of the rod glowed a wicked orange.

  The half-elf went down to one knee and dared to peek in a bit more. Hanging on the wall opposite the door was a rotting talon corpse, shackled at the wrists, and next to it, apparently very close to joining its dead companion, hung another talon, trembling and sobbing.

  The talon at the fire lifted the glowing poker, turned slowly and deliberately, and headed for its new victim; Bryan slipped into the room, quickly motioning for the hanging talon to be quiet, thinking errantly that this creature would welcome potential salvation, whatever race that savior might be.

  “Elf! Elf! Elf!” the hanging talon barked, drawing a blank stare from the torturer.

  Three strides brought Bryan past the fire pit, but the warning had registered enough for the brute to pivot about, bringing the glowing poker up defensively. Bryan batted it aside and thrust his sword straight ahead, but so heavy was the talon torturer’s glove that even Bryan’s fine blade did not cut deeply. Back came the sword at once, just parrying the swinging poker.

  “Yous’ll tell the Thalasi?” the talon hanging on the wall said over and over. “I helps! I helps!”

  The torturer just grunted and came on ferociously, whipping the poker all about, then stabbing ahead with it. Bryan back-stepped each swing and sidestepped the thrust, snapping a backhand parry that forced the poker across the brute’s body and put the talon off balance. Quicker than his bulky opponent, the agile half-elf stepped into the opening and thrust his sword into the heavy shoulder.

  The talon yelped and dropped its poker, and Bryan came in hard, silencing the cries with a series of fast stabs about the creature’s throat. That finished, the talon squirming and gurgling on the floor, the half-elf looked to the hanging prisoner and again motioned for it to remain silent. This time it seemed as if the creature would comply, but Bryan wasn’t about to take the chance. As the talon relaxed, the half-elf rushed in and killed it cleanly with one thrust.

  “You should have been quiet the first time,” Bryan whispered. Then he went and took the leather collar and hood, and the great gloves to hide slender elvish hands.

  There was a second door in this room, leading deeper into the dungeons. As he opened it, Bryan was greeted by a chorus of groaning. He flipped up the hood of his cowl, though he didn’t seem very talonlike, and down he slipped, past dozens of cells, their doors solid and with only a high and small barred window. Several desperate, ugly faces peered out at him as he passed, but the light in here was very poor, and they couldn’t recognize him for what he was—or if they did, they made no sounds to indicate so. Every few feet he paused to listen, or even to peek into the windows of the few cells that didn’t resound with talon groaning.

  He was beginning to get discouraged, to think that this area was only for Thalasi’s worthless talon prisoners, when he heard another voice, lucid and not filled with pain, utter a short phrase that sent the hairs on the back of Bryan’s neck standing on end.

  “Pretty lady.”

  Back in Avalon, Brielle heard it, too.

  Chapter 21

  The Call of Duty

  HE LINGERED ABOVE Avalon for hours, just basking in the beauty of the forest, the purity of the place distracting him despite the urgent need for him to be on his way. Still, Del suspected that his greatest roles would be as scout and as informant, and he knew that he could catch all the others, the swift-marching elves and humans and the flying pegasus, with a mere thought.

  But whe
re to go?

  And then it came to him: a call, a vision, carried on the wind by Brielle, information about Bryan of Corning and Del’s daughter, information about a march greater and more wicked than anything Aielle had ever known, and instructions about what he must do to prevent absolute disaster.

  “Find Belexus.”

  It didn’t take Belexus long to understand that he would not catch his father and his kin before they made the black fortress. He had flown past Arien’s force soon after leaving Avalon, Calamus rushing at tremendous speed, but as he passed over the Brown Wastes, as he saw talons turning their eyes skyward to regard the strange aerial creature, he recognized the futility of it all. Belexus was confident that he was too high up for the creatures to distinguish his identity, for them to even know that this was mount and rider and not just some huge bird. But they saw him, and marked well his passing.

  Up in the empty sky, Belexus could find no hiding. His approach to Kored-dul would be well marked and oftwhispered, and the rumors would inevitably get back to the ears of Morgan Thalasi and Hollis Mitchell. Both had previously seen the ranger airborne upon Calamus—Mitchell had even chased Belexus and the pegasus—and it would not take them long to reason what this strange creature might be.

  Belexus wondered if that revelation might prove a good thing. Perhaps he could lure the wraith out and test his new sword …

  But what of his promise to Brielle? What of Rhiannon? Even if he defeated Mitchell, how would he ever get near to the young witch? Certainly not by alerting Thalasi and his minions of his coming!

  The ranger put down on the muddy ground on the edges of a small seasonal marsh and considered his course more carefully. If he meant to go to Talas-dun without alerting Thalasi, he would have to fly in fast to Kored-dul and then ride, or perhaps even walk, Calamus along the rocky trails. He wondered if he might instead fly fast to the south, and then the west, soaring out over the great ocean and then north along the coast until he had gone right past the black castle. Perhaps he could find a less-guarded northern approach.

  “We’ve got a task that’s showing me no obvious answers,” he said to the great steed. Calamus only looked at him, seeming perfectly unperturbed. The pegasus would go where he commanded, Belexus knew, even if that meant a straightforward assault on Talas-dun and all of Thalasi’s thousands.

  He took some comfort in that unquestioning loyalty as he settled down that night for some much-needed rest. Long before he fell asleep, though, the difficult reality of his task came back to him, and he had to admit again that he had no answers to his dilemma.

  In the end, he decided that he would fly as fast as possible to the west, trying for stealth, but not to the point where it would slow him greatly. And if any talons came out against him, he would kill them, or fly around them; and if Hollis Mitchell came out against him, he would avenge Andovar and then continue on his way; and if Morgan Thalasi himself came out against him, he would finish the Black Warlock and continue on his way.

  He thought that one of those fights had indeed come to him when he was awakened from his sleep sometime later. He didn’t immediately move, other than to slip his hand over the hilt of Pouilla Camby. He kept his eyes half closed, shifting his gaze from side to side, and listened intently for any sounds, or any stirring of the alert pegasus.

  Nothing was apparent, and Belexus understood that it was his sixth sense, his warrior alertness, that had put him on his guard. That sense railed him now; someone, or something, was in the area.

  A snort from Calamus sent him into motion, rolling to his side, then to his knees, sword drawn and ready, eyes scanning the area. He caught some movement to the side, by a large tree, and hopped into a crouch, still glancing all about. Then, satisfied that the other areas of the camp were clear, he focused on that tree, trying to get some measure of his enemy.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you,” a familiar voice came, and the ranger relaxed and lowered his blade. Jeffrey DelGiudice floated into view, drifting right through the tree. “I meant to let you sleep the night,” the spirit explained. “And to watch over you.” He regarded the ranger’s alert stance, the drawn sword. “But I see that you need little watching over,” he added with a chuckle.

  “Why’ve ye come?” Belexus asked.

  “For Brielle,” Del answered immediately.

  Belexus quickly fought down the jealous feelings that stirred within him, biting them back fully, determined not to let his pride get in the way of this all-important mission. Rescuing Rhiannon was paramount; however it was accomplished, and by whom, was not really important.

  “Together we’ll get to Talas-dun, then,” the ranger reasoned.

  “No,” Del replied. “I mean, that’s why Brielle bade me to come and get you.”

  “What news?” the ranger asked urgently. “Is her girl safe then?”

  “No,” Del answered, and then, seeing the ranger’s crestfallen expression, quickly added, “Not yet.”

  Belexus breathed a sigh of relief.

  “But Bryan of Corning is in Talas-dun, so Brielle says,” Del explained. “And the witch is with him, in spirit if not in body.”

  “Then we should be making all haste to join the lad,” Belexus reasoned, and started for Calamus.

  “No,” the spirit replied, stopping the ranger short. “Brielle has foreseen another danger, one more immediate. Arien is marching west.”

  “I’ve seen as much.”

  “And Benador comes from the southeast with a huge force,” Del went on.

  “Ayuh,” the ranger agreed. “And they’ll be finding each other in the foothills, so’s me guess.”

  “But before they get there, they’ll be fighting,” Del explained, “for Thalasi’s army is massing in those foothills. And Brielle fears that each force will be hit hard before they can join together, to the sorrow of the not-so-numerous elves, no doubt. She wants us to prevent that.”

  Belexus didn’t know how to take the request. Certainly he understood the valuable role he could play in the forthcoming battle, flying high above the battlefield on Calamus, marking enemy positions and strength, but his heart was for Brielle, and for Rhiannon, and he didn’t know how he could leave the young witch in the dungeons of Talas-dun, no matter the callings of duty.

  “Brielle has placed her confidence in Bryan,” Del said, as if reading his thoughts. “She would not have asked you—asked us—to detour from the course to Talas-dun if she didn’t believe honestly that Bryan would get Rhiannon out of there.”

  Again, the ranger was not so sure of that. For all her love for her daughter, Brielle was an altruistic one, who always, always, placed the greater good first. Belexus understood that her choice in detouring him was based more in her fears for the coming battle than in her hopes for Rhiannon’s salvation.

  “Yerself can be the scout for the armies,” the ranger reasoned.

  “What do I know of tactics?” Del asked. “And what do I know of Benador and Arien? How will they—and more important, how will their soldiers—react when a ghost shows up in their midst? A ghost, they might believe, sent by Thalasi to deter them.”

  The ranger glanced all around, feeling suddenly like his options were running thin. Above the pain in his heart, the mere fact that Brielle had asked him to turn away from Rhiannon revealed how important she thought his role in the coming battle must be. And in considering the scenario, Belexus could not disagree. With the pegasus, and his present position, he could get a fair measure of Thalasi’s force and inform both Arien and Benador long before they neared the battlefield. With a bit of luck, any ambush that Thalasi had planned for the coming armies might be turned back on the talons.

  “Get yer rest,” Belexus said. “We’ll be up high in the morning.”

  “I don’t need any,” Del replied.

  “Then go and play with yer tree,” the ranger said, managing a bit of a smile.

  He came in wildly, swinging and hacking with apparent abandon. But Bryan was in complete control, his
every strike strengthened by rage but tempered by his warrior sensibilities. He saw Rhiannon hanging in shackles, badly beaten, but he did not let the sight truly register, did not let it bring him to despair.

  He only let it cause him rage, and in the first few seconds of that charge through the door, Bryan had both the zombie guards hacked down to the floor and had put the talon jailor, the largest and ugliest talon he had ever seen, back on its heels, waving its chain and huge dagger frantically in a desperate defense.

  The creature was no match for the outraged warrior, and Bryan’s powerful swings kept it backing and scrambling. It tried to retreat in an angle that would give it clear flight out the door, but Bryan would have none of that, dragging his back foot whenever he advanced, so he could change to any direction immediately in perfect balance.

  In thrust his sword; the talon leaped back and whipped the chain across, and the metal links wound about Bryan’s weapon. Before the talon’s smile could ever widen on its ugly face, though, Bryan turned his shoulder and rushed in, slamming the creature hard with his shield, pinning its dagger hand in close to its side.

  The talon dropped one foot back, expecting Bryan to continue his press, but the half-elf, recognizing that the talon was the stronger, did not want to play this close in combat. Instead of advancing, the half-elf dropped his sword shoulder and pivoted back across and under his turning shield, twisting the chain free of the talon’s grasp. Before the ugly creature could counter the move, before it could slip through the sudden opening for a clear slash at Bryan’s side, the half-elf snapped his blade out to the side, launching the chain across the room, then put the sword back in line with the talon.

  The creature had only one recourse remaining; it darted to the side and back, nearing Rhiannon. “Yous come on and she gets sticked!” the wretched brute cried.

  Hardly thinking of the movement, Bryan tossed his sword in the air, caught it in a reverse grip, and hurled it across the span. He started a rush right behind the flying blade, but no need, for the lightning-spewing weapon had done its work, driving hard through the talon’s chest, dropping it to lean against the back wall, where it slid down to the floor, down to death.